Tom is freaking out
by Levitt
Summary: Tom gets a call from Sam and is freaking out


"Don't freak out, okay?" Sam wedged the phone between his shoulder and his ear while he checked the ice pack was securely in place, then settled back on the couch in his apartment.

"What happened?" said Tom, instantly suspicious. "Why would I freak out? Where are you?"

"I'm at home. I'm fine." Sam kept his voice soothing. "I twisted my ankle, but—"

"Oh, God. Your ankle? Stay there, I'm coming over."

"I'm not going anywhere, but I'm fine," repeated Sam. "I know you're busy. You don't have to baby me—"

"I don't? You're right. What could a person with two good ankles possibly do that you can't?"

Sam laughed. "Fine, come over, but my roommate's here so it's not like I'm completely—"

"No buts. I'll be there in twenty. Where do you live again?"

Sam hung up, shaking his head and grinning to himself. Tom was still kind of a drama queen, but only because he really cared, and the more time Sam spent with him, the more he understood that. Ivy was rarely kind, Julia's kindness was often a cover for impatience or fear, but Tom wore his fear on his sleeve—wore everything there. He was an open book, all heart. It showed in his music too, and Sam was immersed in the music; it _was_his work, and it threaded through his sleep too, caught in his mind at odd moments, even last thing at night when he was saying his prayers. Tom was—Tom was brilliant and vulnerable and amazing. Sam could feel the warmth growing between them as if it were a tangible thing, not just affection, but trust too.

There had been times Sam had doubted that he fell under the umbrella of Tom's concern—it was already stretched to cover Ivy and Julia and Julia's family, to name only a few, and Tom would drop everything if one of his people needed so much as a listening ear. And Sam did the same for Tom, supporting him when the pressures of the show and life got too much. So sometimes it felt like Tom expected Sam to take care of himself, like Sam was at the top of the caring pyramid.

From that position, it could be hard to be sure where you stood: were you structural support or actual partners? And it wasn't like he'd put Tom's loyalty to the test before now, especially since there was a small, quiet part of Sam that was still surprised Tom was into him enough to hang around when he'd said he wanted to wait. It was one thing to tell a guy in all sincerity that waiting was better; it was a whole other thing for the guy to believe you, to take it on faith.

Plus on top of that, Sam was an independent guy. He didn't need Tom fussing over him every time he got an ache. Dancing was supposed to hurt: if it didn't, you weren't working hard enough. But independent or not, it was a great feeling to know that his boyfriend would come running when Sam needed him, that Sam could lean on him for a change.

He checked the latest hockey scores on his phone and waited for Tom to arrive.

Sam's roommate, Eli, let Tom in and then disappeared into his bedroom. Tom was carrying a huge bouquet of flowers and a paper grocery bag. "Hey."

"Hey," said Sam from the couch. He had to force himself to stay where he was. His ankle didn't hurt so long as he kept it elevated, and he wasn't going to risk his recovery, but he wanted to greet Tom properly. "You brought me flowers?"

"These are for me," said Tom, deadpan. "I brought you soup."

"It's a twisted ankle, not the flu."

"Chicken soup cures everything." Tom dropped the flowers and the grocery bag on top of the stacks of newspapers and magazines on the dining table and unwound his scarf. "I also brought Cheetos and beer." He dug in the bag and tossed Sam the Cheetos. "How is it?"

"It's fine." Sam sat up and poked the icepack, which was starting to turn slushy. "I have to stay off it a couple of days. I'll be back Monday, good as new." He opened the Cheetos and ate a handful, only then remembering he'd skipped lunch.

Eli emerged from his bedroom with his coat and a rucksack bulging with books.

"My roommate, Eli," said Sam, making introductions. "This is Tom. Eli's studying medicine, majoring in female anatomy."

"Given how often your name comes up, it's hard to believe we haven't met before now." Eli grinned and shook Tom's hand, then turned to Sam. "I'll be back around ten—text me if you need anything," he said.

"I'm good." Sam lay down again as the door closed, leaving him and Tom alone. In a minute, he'd get Tom to swap the icepack for a fresh one from the freezer, but for now, he was content to watch Tom prowl around the living room with catlike curiosity, scarf still in hand. They'd been dating nearly four months, and this was the first time Tom had been here.

Tom picked up a hockey stick that was propped in the corner and studied it as if it might explode. "I should've worn a little nurse's outfit, shouldn't I?" he said without looking around.

"Come here," said Sam.

Tom put the hockey stick back where he'd found it and turned slowly, a teasing smile on his face. "Thought you were fine."

"I am fine. Come here." Sam felt a pang of impatience, a twist of desire. Waiting had been relatively easy when their time together consisted of dates in public. Even making out on Tom's couch hadn't tested Sam's resolve too severely, but to have Tom here, caring for him—that shifted everything. Sam could feel himself falling.

Tom came and perched on the edge of the couch by Sam's side. He stroked Sam's cheek with his thumb and leaned forward to press a soft kiss to Sam's lips. "Hi."

When he started to sit up again, Sam grabbed the front of his hoodie to keep him there and opened his mouth, deepening the kiss. He moved his other hand to Tom's hip and pressed up against him. Tom shivered and pulled away. "Wait. You wanted to wait."

"I didn't mean _forever_." Sam frowned, his vision slightly blurred. "I thought you wanted to."

Tom's smile was rueful. "I do. I really do. But I also want to be sure you won't regret it. This is heat of the moment, and I want to know the heat's still going to be there tomorrow."

"Tom, trust me." Sam tightened his hand on Tom's hip. "I know what I'm doing."

"I do trust you," said Tom quietly. He was flushed, but he also looked unbelievably tender, and his hand was so hot on Sam's shoulder that Sam could feel it through the sweatshirt he was wearing. "And I am—" Deep breath. "—so in love with you." The tenderness held for a second, gladness resonating between the two of them, but then Tom's expression shifted. "Is that too much? Should I not have said it? It doesn't have to change anything, I just thought—it's stupid to feel it and not say it, you know? I hate that. But maybe I should've written you a song, instead of—"

"Tom." Sam stopped the flood of words with a single syllable. "I love you too. Come here."

Tom swallowed hard and didn't move. "You humble me, you know that? I'm humbled."

"Me too," said Sam softly.

"Really?" Tom raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Because you always seem pretty sure of yourself."

Sam met his gaze and let his fears show. Tom was a decade older, successful, famous, experienced; Sam was good at what he did, but he was still in the ensemble. And there wasn't any virtue in trying to keep his insecurity hidden—if he'd learned anything from Tom, he'd learned that. "I know by rights you should be out of my league, but—"

Tom's eyes widened. "That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard. What league?"

He bent forward and pressed a sweet, lingering kiss to Sam's mouth, and the last of Sam's doubts evaporated. This was right, inevitable, blessed. "I know, okay? I'm just saying, you don't have the monopoly on humble." Sam studied his face. "And I want to be with you. I'm ready."

Tom pulled back slightly, and when he spoke, his voice was husky. "If you're sure, we're going to do this right." He stood up and scooped Sam into his arms. "Where's your bedroom?"

"I can walk." Sam tried half-heartedly to get down, but Tom held tight. Sam gave up. "First on the left. You're stronger than you look—you know, it's not too late to take up a sport."

Tom breathed a laugh. "Right."

He carried Sam into the bedroom, laid him on the roughly made bed. Sam shoved the morning's discarded clothes aside with one hand and pulled Tom down to lie with him, sure of himself and what he wanted. Sure of Tom. The certainty tingled, warm in his veins. They kissed, and a few heartbeats later, he felt Tom surrender to the tidal pull of it, felt his passion rise even as he carefully negotiated their embrace, trying not to disturb Sam's sore ankle. Sam snuck his hands under Tom's clothes to find the smooth skin underneath, and smiled as Tom's breath quickened and his body pressed close. Every caress that passed between them was rich with intimacy. Tom peeled aside Sam's shirt, and Sam worked open Tom's jeans, and they moved together, a slow dance of pleasure and love.


End file.
